Uncomprehending
by Rose Mello
Summary: SPOILERS FOR IRONMAN 3. Everyone thought that Tony Stark was dead. It was on the tabloids, heard on radio and reported on live television. But where were the Avengers? Where were they when Tony's Malibu mansion collapsed and he went missing? Each Avenger's reaction to hearing the news. One chapter for every character and a final aftermath of confrontation. Family/Friendship/Angst.
1. Captain America

**Hola, Amigos! This'll be a few oneshots which tie together in the end, one chapter for each Avenger. I watched Iron Man 3 today, and I LOVED IT. A thought ran through my head though, where were the Avengers? Had they heard of what had happened? How would they react to Tony's 'death'?**

**Spoilers for Iron Man 3- and very lightly for the Avengers (Seriously if you haven't either of them, go NOW. They're AWESOMETACULAR. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, unfortunately. I mean, if I did I would NOT be writing so much fanfiction and more angsty-fluffy-whump inducing scripts. Not that Stan Lee doesn't do a great job and isn't great. He's FANTASTICAL. I wish he'd just make it so I don't have to wait two/three years for each bloody sequel of each bloody movie. **

Steve didn't watch as the colossal outbreak of disbelief and demand broke out on live television. His eyes hadn't trailed over and studied the news-reporters and interviewers yelling about the major, phenomenal controversy. His ears hadn't perked up as he listened to the radio, and the crowds of people gathering and debating the tragic event with a ridiculous flavour of incredulity. He didn't hear the whispers and murmurs of shock from every single person with a working knowledge of the public media and a properly functioning voice box. He hadn't read the posts and updates and live breaking news feeds all over every single social media and reports website in the entire world.

No, Steve hadn't known until he had picked up newsletter the morning after.

He had been travelling, all over the world. Since the first mission initiated for the Avengers Initiative, he had realised he wanted to discover more. To see the modernisation and revolutionising of the world he had known and come to love decades and decades ago. It was overwhelming- to finally completely comprehend that with a touch of a button or the tap of a screen, one could see and hear someone on the other side of the world in seconds. To understand that there was no particular dress code, that turning seventeen didn't mean joining the military and fighting cold, bloody wars.

And despite how overwhelming that had been, to conclusively grasp the fact that nothing in the world he had lived and breathed in would ever remain or be the same as it once was, that singular emotion in such a context did not compare to how it evolved and heightened so drastically when he had held that crisped and damp on the edges black and white paper, with a title printed in large capitals and in bold neatly at the top of the page.

_**Billionaire Tony Stark DEAD**_

No.

_No._

The first humane emotion that Steve registered was harsh and persistent and crashed into him with the force of a tsunami, like a majestic, overbearing smash, colliding so viciously and intently into his very being and weakening him at the knees.

It was rage.

Anger, as pure and unyielding as it was. It beared enough of an influence for his strong hands to crush either side of the page, calloused fingertips and short-trimmed pale nails scratching roughly against the cheap thin material with unsurprising vigour, tearing it at the edges and crumbling the corners of the words as well as the photograph of Tony.

He could hear the ripping of paper; feel the tightness of his nails pressed hard against his palms through the letter, echoing in the shadow of the gritting of his teeth as they crashed together in order to stop the yell building at the back of his throat. He could sense the disbelieving widening of his eyes, the surreal dilation of his pupils.

He reread the title and corrected himself. Billionaire Tony Stark _presumed _dead. _Believed_ to be dead. _Convinced_ to be dead.

But that didn't make him so.

No, just because the public thought he no longer breathed, it didn't mean that it was true. It proved nothing. There was no body found at the scene- the _scene. _He only realised that in the moments he had spent standing, weak in the knees, that he hadn't gotten past the title, let alone the scene.

A part of him didn't want to. He could feel the tremors running through his body, causing the newspaper to shake ever so slightly. He could hear the thumping of his heart quicken and beat so hard against his ribs it almost made him dizzy. He realised that he didn't want to read this. He didn't want to process the words because he, or some illogical part of him, believed that once he read the words- that there would be no going back. That it would officially mean that Tony was probably dead. That he _was_ dead.

He knew how ridiculous the notion was. Regardless of whether he read the article or not, Tony was still going to be where he was right now. Tony was still going to either be dead, or he wasn't. It wouldn't change the facts or the events or the reasons. It wouldn't change what had taken place and it certainly wouldn't make anything any easier.

He could finally feel the fury subsiding and noticed that he didn't know why he had felt so. Why was he mad? Maybe because despite how many times Steve had warned Tony, despite how many times he notified him of the risks and consequences of his actions, that he had never listened? That he wasn't able to count the times that Tony had flown into a burning, collapsing building with a breaking suit and a failing source of energy without a second thought for himself? Nor the times which he had reprimanded Tony for being so careless and ignorant of where his actions could and _would_ land him…

And suddenly, just in that exact moment, another wave of surpassing emotions hit him. It was loss. It was loss and sadness and desperation. He could feel the moisture building behind his lashes, the harshness of the quivering in his limbs overtaking the strength used to crumble the edges of the paper.

Tony was probably gone. Tony was probably dead, and Tony was probably never coming back.

Tony. Was. Gone.

Tony _was _gone.

Steve heard the thud of his knees crashing against the hard, cold floor before he felt them giving out and collapsing beneath him. He noticed his vision blurring before he felt the first tear escaping the prison of his long, light lashes. He smelt the feint scent of salt before the first drop cascaded onto the floor and left a small, seemingly insignificant mark. He could hear himself clearing his throat as subtly as he could despite there being no one around and almost missed the words which had almost unnoticeably slipped past his lips.

"_You son of a bitch."_

His heart beat faster than ever when a strange sort of determination flowed through his system and eclipsed him. His fingers tightened from their recently loosened grip and he could sense the feeling rushing through his legs again. No. _No_, Tony Stark was _not_ dead. He was _presumed _to bedead, but Steve knew that the bastard could come back from practically anything.

Steve managed to push himself of the floor and resisted the urge to laugh at himself. He was not going to play the role of someone who gave up so easily. He straightened himself up and forced his legs to quit shaking. He was Captain _bloody_ America, and was a _soldier_. A soldier who stood and fought for good men. A soldier who stood and fought for his friends.

And that included Tony.

Tony was alive, as far as Steve could tell. It didn't matter that everyone believed he wasn't. It didn't matter that there was most likely an undeniable amount of evidence enforcing his death and passing. Steve wasn't just going to stand by when something bigger was at stake.

He was going to read the report and he was going to listen to the news. He was going to watch the interviews and fully comprehend the situation before drawing any conclusions.

But first of all, he was going to call Fury.

Abandoning the scene of his breakdown, he let his determination speak for itself through his deliberate strides and the remains of a single tear on the pavement.

Tony Stark was not dead, not because he couldn't be, but because _presumed_ dead wasn't good enough.

_Tony Stark was not dead._

**What did you think? Review or throw in a PM to tell me who you'd like me to write about next! Until next time (next update, tomorrow & the day after & so on!)**

**Adios Amigos!**

**~Rose**


	2. Black Widow

**Hey guys! Second instalment less than 24 hours later:) Who would you like to see next?**

It was live on television when Natasha Romanov first witnessed the horrific destruction and collapse of the Stark Malibu mansion.

It had been somewhere mid-afternoon over in France. The sun had risen and glowed bright and golden in all its glory, exposing itself from within the soft, pale clouds it had hidden behind, resting upon the still, calm blue sky. She was leaving the beautiful city of Paris after a successful operation, which took a surprisingly minimal amount of time to complete and fulfil all the required necessities in relativity to gaining the essential information.

She had strolled down the street, walking in a strange sense of relaxation she had not experienced in some time. Her light smile enlightened her face as her scarlet curls framed her defined cheekbones and the rays of the sun reflected of her tanned skin. She was heading towards the airport only metres away, and had insisted on walking the short main road between the parking area and the entrance- as she wished to have a moment of tranquillity- certainly not in a vulnerable manner, but in one which she was able to enjoy her magnificent serene surroundings for once. All of her baggage was sent ahead of her, so she had the moment to herself.

It was all fine. Everything was perfect- at least, as much as it could be for someone like her.

That was until she stepped passed the electronics store with the large plasma television plastered behind the thin layer of clear glass. There had been a small crowd building up, and in order to get past she was forced to tread through the small hoard of people. Her intention was to walk by the scene, completely ignorant of what the site of fascination was.

But her eyes had trailed over the screen as she peaked over the shoulders of a tall, ginger man.

And suddenly, everything wasn't okay.

She pushed through the people, ignoring the murmurs and huffs from lips smeared with too much lipstick or not enough. Her calm demeanour was beginning to crumble, piece by piece. And as she reached the front, gaining a full high-definition view of the screen, the peace which she had built up within her in those few moments, quickly collapsed in the same manner as the asphalt and concrete walls of Tony's million-dollar home- sinking deep into the never ending blue ocean.

Her eyes stuck to the screen at their own accord, her lips parting slightly as she attempted to draw in a single breath, somehow unable to collect that one part of her that was still calm as another missile collided violently with another pristine white wall, further bringing down the once beautiful structure. Each piece of the mansion station on the high cliff had tumbled and tumbled before crashing into now violently raging waters with massive spray of armies of clear, crystal drops.

Her heart crashed against the bones of her ribs with such ferocity it caused the chain reaction of the subtle tremble of her lip. She bit her tongue between her teeth sharply as media helicopters closed in on the tragedy of scene to stop herself from reacted rashly and throwing something so heavy and with enough strength to break and shatter both layers of glass and splinter the crude images before her.

She had known Anthony Edward Stark to know that he was undoubtedly one of the world's smartest men, a true genius. She had known Ironman long enough to know that he was one of earth's courageous, valiant protectors. She had known Stark as the son of his father, a billionaire and heir to his own industries. She had known Tony Stark as an arrogant, egotistical playboy.

But she knew _Tony_ as a friend.

Despite their dysfunctional and estranged relationship, it was still a friendship worth fighting for- regardless of their slight lack of trust and issues towards and with each other. The Tony the media knew wasn't the Tony she knew. He wasn't the same Tony who invited them to stay at Stark Tower between missions or when they just needed to. The same Stark who made sure that whenever they were all in the same place that they would watch movies from the 1940s or make Clint amazingly advanced explosive arrows, or revolutionise her weapons to an extent further than SHIELD could ever dream to.

And now there was a live news-reporter with dyed strawberry blonde hair and fake too-big lips in a tight blazer telling her that Tony was probably dead. And strangely enough, she felt more anger towards the ignorant, fake reporter with too much makeup and eyes darkened with a hideous shade of pink eyeliner for even suggesting something like that.

For even _implying_ it.

She one of her skilled, manicured hands ball up into a tight, sharp fist with enough strength to make pins and needles crawl up her limbs. She felt her toes curl tartly in her flats and tasted a sour, bitter flavour at the back of her throat. She blinked the sudden wetness collecting behind her dark eyelashes and closed her eyes for a second- blocking out the reporter's too high voice and the outraged and disbelieving murmurs of the crowd surrounding her.

Tony Stark might be dead, the woman had said. She might as well have announced that he had taken his own life, or all the bloody difference it would have made. She inhaled and exhaled and attempted to force the immediate trembling that had begun in her hands and escalated to her knees. Funny, she hadn't even realised she was shaking.

She peeled her eyelids open again and felt another coarse of what she had realised was _despise _of all things, aimed towards the woman who has trying too hard and making it easy enough for Natasha to hate her enough for speaking and implying such ridiculous things, as if she had been the one to personally send the explosives crashing into Tony's home.

That fake of a woman had no right saying those things, that Tony was dead. Because he wasn't.

He couldn't be.

The man had survived flying into space to let off and explosive and destroy an alien organisation base whilst saving millions of people. In a suit which was collapsing and breaking apart on him as he flew higher with a minimal amount of oxygen. Then he had basically stopped breathing.

Natasha pushed away the sudden emotion of desperation sliding along her skin and numbing her mind and glazing over her orbs. There was only wreckage now. Nothing more than people attempting to put out the flames liking the concrete mess that was once Tony's home. Nothing more than people filled with an unimaginable desperation and a growing despondency as they anxiously searched the debris for their fallen hero.

A hero Natasha knew they would probably not find.

The anger subsided slightly, yet despite all manners of logic, she still could not bring herself to heave away the hate and other strong emotions concerning the news reporter. That woman, despite only 'doing her job' had no right. There was just no way Tony Stark was dead.

A sensation of finality tugged away all the negatively relating feelings coursing harshly within her. She was going to find out what had happened. And she was going to kick Tony's ass for this storm when she found him too.

With that, she left the scene and the distraught people who knew Tony and despite not ever personally seeing him, or meeting him, still looked up to him. They would do nothing, she knew. They would accept this, and she would not. She was Tony's friend, and he was going to have to construct one hell of an explanation for this whole mess.

As she left for the airport, she didn't even notice the drop of blood which had trailed down her fingers and struck the somewhat dirty pavement from pressing her nails against her palm so hard in a surreal sense of- despite not realising it- grief induced anxiety.

That didn't make him dead though. That didn't make Tony dead.

**Comment, Kudos, Review, PM- tell me what you think. Thanks for reading;)**


	3. Hulk

**Okay, this completely disregards the final scene (after the credits, of course- because there's always something after the credits) when Tony is talking to Bruce and telling him the whole story. Despite how much I love that scene and think that it's ABSULOTELY PERFECT (OHMYGOD FANGIRLING THAT PART WAS BEAUTIFUL) it won't, unfortunately, fit into this tale. That scene implies Bruce never knew, whereas in this chapter, he finds out. This is his reaction:) Which, I obviously had such a JOY writing. I'm such a sucker for bromance. :) There you have it, Bruce Banner! Who would you like next, Thor or Clint Barton? Fury, and Fury will be included in this, will definitely be last- before the major confrontation/aftermath. **

Bruce could feel the almost surreal rage coursing through his veins uncontrollably, streaming and flowing and gushing within him. He could feel the deep-set, desperate fury mingle within his cells and entwine with the crimson blood pumping harshly beneath his unnaturally pallid skin. His heartbeat seemed almost forced, echoing loudly and severely to his own ears. And somewhere, beneath the layers of the deafening plasma rushing through his ears, fusing to the rhythm of the constant drumming within his cranium, pounding and pounding and pounding to a never-ending pulsation- he could feel his heart, bashing against his ribcage mercilessly.

The sensation was persistent- of cold sweat beading along his neckline, forming across skin that was too colourless and darkened veins that were too evident. His eyes trailed over his bare hands, rough and calloused and decorated with estranged, unnatural green streaks- embedded beneath the skin and announcing just how close he had come to the edge. The tips of his fingers had developed a strange greenish-blue shadow, surrounded by more spider-web like lines flowing all too obviously across his body.

Clenching a set of fists, ignoring the manner in which his unusually toned fingers dug into his vein covered palms, he concentrated on letting go. He focused his mind- or whatever sector of it, in all its brilliance- to remaine in a state with enough composition to gather his bearings and bring him from his looming release of rage and fury.

He was so close. He could tell his orbs had tinged to a forest emerald tone, varying from their usual somehow calm hazel, by the way his vision had blurred around the edges and developed a standing scarlet shadow that he could see with blinding clarity whenever he slid his eyelids close. Dilated pupils and unorthodox streams of coloured lines rushing across his orbs, that stage he knew he was past. He could feel the 'Other Guy' stirring hungrily within him, filled with a ridiculously rash, illogical and undoubtedly fuelled wrath.

Calm yourself.

A single breath flowed through his pallid chapped lips and streaming down his windpipe, filtering itself within his hungry lungs.

Calm yourself, Bruce.

Funny, Bruce thought, that was what Tony used to tell him. All the time. Whether it was between prodding him with a Taser or sitting close enough to him to peer at him with large, curious eyes- silently, and not to so silently- asking him about the 'Other Guy', asking him about the Hulk.

Deep breaths.

The thing with Tony –see, he mused in the moments between the pounding again in his head and reverberating in his veins, coursing through his bloodlines, was that… he wasn't afraid. Tony wasn't afraid, and he wasn't shy around the Hulk, and he certainly didn't make him feel alone.

Alone.

No. Bruce had been alone most of his life. Out-shunned and rejected and hunted. On the run and all, all alone. With no friends, no family, no-one.

The other Avengers were fine around him, he supposed. Steve treated him as a friend, but as much as he tried to hide it- he was still cautious. He still made subtle hints and kept slightly tense when he was around Bruce. He kept a secure gaze on him and never, ever, ever talked about him- the Hulk, the Other Guy, him. Natasha was afraid. Even if only to the slightest and smallest of degrees, she was scared of him and of what he might do and how he might react. She had a weapon on her person when near him at all times, and never initiated close contact unless absolutely necessary. Thor wasn't around much, but the lightly swerving gaze he calculated Bruce with from time to time made him feel like he was being analysed, tested. He patted him on the shoulder from time to time and they had shaken hands, but it was all that was. Firm and unyielding and precautious. Clint, on the other hand, was better- in a way. He smile and talked to Bruce and threw the occasional joke around, but he, like Steve, also never talked about the Hulk. He never mentioned him, he never implied a circumstance which included him, he just never really said anything- as if Bruce was one person, and- oh the irony- the 'Other Guy' was another.

But Tony Stark, Tony freakin' Stark had poked and prodded and teased him about it. He slapped Bruce on the back and nudged him with his elbow. He smiled in a carefree manner around him and asked him, asked him about the Hulk. He talked about the 'Other Guy' and joked about him. Hell, once he had even looked in all serious intent into Bruce's eyes and thanked him for catching him in the aftermath of the whole New York fiasco with Loki.

And that was the thing, wasn't it? He thanked him. He thanked Bruce. He was the only one who understood.

He was the only one who understood that Bruce and the 'Other Guy' were one in the same person. Bruce was the Hulk and the Hulk was Bruce; you couldn't have one without the other.

And that scared Bruce. In fact, it terrified him. It made him horrified to such an extent because he was beginning to feel comfortable around Tony; he was beginning to feel safe.

Breathe.

He could feel the green tinted veins retracting and his eyes returning to a state of normalcy. The beating of his heart wasn't so loud anymore, and it didn't deafen him to the point where all he wanted to do was cover his ears with his hands and scream and beg for silence. His blood stopped rushing throughout his body a mile a minute and his skin began to regain some colour.

Breathe.

He finally began to feel the sensation of exhaustion crawling across his limbs and filling them with lead. His head felt heavy and his eyelids felt like they were rusted metal Venus fly traps creaking because their hinges had finally given in.

At last, his breaths were no longer required to be long and calculated and forced. The blessed familiar calm had washed over him once more, leaving him practically dead on his feet- but extremely relieved nonetheless. He wouldn't- couldn't- give in to his emotions at the moment. Not when Tony was in such serious danger.

Somewhere near the coast of Southern India, Bruce Banner turned off the radio with a quick twist of the old, croaking wooden knob- touching the aging device only slightly as if it had somehow personally offended him. The reporter's clear voice was bathed in a short storm of sparking static before abruptly ended as the man began to speak about the Mandarin.

Bruce strained himself to stop the surging emotions that threatened to drown him. Despite the fact that his anger had been replaced by exhaustion, he knew the moisture collecting at his eyelashes was a result of something entirely different. He knew, as the first crystal drop fell and collided with the pristine, white tiled floors that it would be the first of many. Of many made from sadness and loss and misery. Of many made from hurt and angst and confusion. For the one person who wasn't afraid. For the one person who trusted him. For his kindness, and for his selflessness. For the person who knew he was Bruce Banner just as well as the Hulk.

For his friend.

And the he wouldn't give up on him. He wouldn't just give in, because he knew with an unusual frightening certainty- that if the situations were reversed, Tony would do the exact same thing. Heck, he'd probably bring him back from the dead if need be.

Plus, it's not like the Hulk would let him. The same Hulk who liked nobody, who cared for nobody, who fought for nobody. The same Hulk who had saved Tony, the same Hulk which Tony had saved in return.

So he was going to stop the tears and the shaking- he'd only just noticed that, honestly- and he was going to- he and the 'Other Guy'- find him. Find the bastard and yell at him for being so careless, and then probably punch him- and then definitely engulf him in a hug that was from Bruce and the Hulk.

And then he was probably going to punch him again for pulling a stunt like that. And for good measure.

But right now he needed to get out of this makeshift lab and call Fury to ask him why the hell he had to hear that his best friend was probably dead through the freakin' radio.


	4. Hawkeye

**Right. So by reading this, you can tell that I'm implying that the Avengers did some more Avenging between the time of the end of The Avengers and the beginning of Ironman 3, despite me not planning it that way. Enjoy Clint Barton and next is Thor:) Well isn't this going to be interesting… Tell me what you think, all creative criticism welcomed. **

Clint Barton squeezed the cold, hard metal forming the trigger of the silver gun with one long tanned finger. His limbs barely moved as the weapon cradled in his skilled hands recoiled ever so slightly. The loud, evident bang reverberated throughout the closed-off firing range and managed to snake into soundwaves filtering through his thick earmuffs. He let out an almost inaudible sound that should have passed for a sigh, and lowered the slick, smooth weapon down on the miniature steel shelf beside him. He didn't do much else though, and took a single moment to stop- just for a few precious seconds- and allow his mind some rest.

He could feel the gears in his head turning fervently, almost hearing the grinding of the mechanical work spinning and turning and orbiting within his skull. It was as if the rapid beating of his heart wasn't enough, as if the continuous quick pounding of the strong muscle bouncing back and forth between his bones hadn't caused him enough reason to take a breath before he keeled over. He felt as if, despite shooting at a target for the past half an hour or so, that he hadn't the energy left to move a limb.

He wasn't tired. There was no undeniable exhaustion seeping slowly into the marrow of his bones. He wasn't injured or hungry, hell- he wasn't even sure he was awake. Everything had sort of blended together into a scale of greys, whites and blacks, ever since he had heard. He didn't see the sun reflecting off the sky-clear bullet proof windows, and he didn't hear the birds chirping happily outside, dancing among the warmth and the clouds. He doubted that even if he had squinted his eyes and centred his gaze, that even if he had perked his ears and remained silent, that he wouldn't sense anything much beyond the estranged void that seemed to his planted itself permanently within his chest.

It was all dark, and dreadful and gloomy. His chapped lips felt like they weighed a ton, refusing to open and let him breathe more than necessary to keep his heart thumping. His tongue tasted bitter in his mouth and his teeth stale and sharp as they grazed over the muscle. There was an unusually disturbing flavour- too similar to that of sickness- at the back of his throat. His orbs were there and his eyelids were open, but despite being able to see with clarity- everything continued to disorient together.

He felt nothing and he heard nothing. He sensed not a thing beyond the growing dark abyss in his torso, feeling its frosty cold bite as it ate away at him, leaving him with _nothing_ and _everything_.

But he knew, standing here- doing nothing- wasn't going to help anyone. It wasn't going to clear the sudden blurriness across his vision and it certainly wasn't going to find Tony.

Forcing one of his hands to move, he managed to enforce enough control on the limb to clench his fingers lightly around the lever and place his palm steadily over it as he pulled, causing his paper target to slide towards him with the soft hissing noise of metal clashing against metal.

As the faceless figure with dark curved lines and an uneven number of holes was dragged further towards him, he couldn't help the small defeated sigh that escaped him.

He winced and gazed over the would-be dead man in a sense of tragedy and a slight tweak of anger as he noticed that the closest bullet that would have killed the man was off, stationed narrowly at the side of the head. Deep enough to keep one alive for half a minute perhaps- a few centimetres over and it would have simply been a graze.

He knew he had to get it together. He knew that something like this shouldn't have any effect on his abilities- but it did, damn it- _it did_.

How could it not? How could anyone expect that this would mean nothing to him? That _Tony_ would mean nothing to him? Sure, the man could be careless and infuriating but he was a good man nonetheless. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to fly out into a bloody wormhole and destroy an entire organisation of evil world-dominating aliens only to die at the hands of terrorists.

He isn't dead, Clint told himself. He had repeated the mantra time and time again but he just couldn't help the way his heart felt as if it had a hole down the centre of it, the way his mind could concentrate on nothing but the darkened shadows surrounding him, the way he wanted to crawl into the ground and sleep forever.

Clint had lost many people in his life. He just didn't know why this particular loss had affected him so much-

Maybe it was because Tony had offered him a place to stay, in between missions or when he just needed to crash. Maybe it was because he practically revolutionised his arrows without having been asked to. Maybe because he was willing to listen when Clint needed to talk.

Maybe because he wasn't dead.

Clint realised something. Maybe he hadn't thought of it as soon as Coulson had asked to speak with him. Maybe he hadn't seen it when Phil had told him that Tony was probably dead. He didn't know how he missed it when the unusually grim and ever more so quiet agent told him that they were going to search for the body.

But now, alone in the company of Shield's Shooting range with his brand new- he had only noticed now, it was made by Stark Industries, Tony himself- gun to one side and a dozen purple feather arrows to the other, that he refused.

He refused to believe that Tony was dead. He refused to believe that the other man wasn't immune to explosives and wasn't an expert at coming back from the dead. Tony wasn't dead.

No, he couldn't be. But what if he was? What if Tony Stark had died in what Coulson had dubbed a '_cowardly attack'_? What if… what if he was somewhere down in that endless pit of solid concrete debris- and his mangled body just hadn't been found yet? What if his corpse would be found tomorrow morning in the depths of the ocean where he had fallen, his skin so pale it was practically transparent?

No, _no_. He couldn't- _wouldn't_- think like that. Tony was his friend, and regardless of the situation, he wouldn't give up on the other man… just like he knew Tony wouldn't give up on him if something like that had happened. Hell, Tony had even said once that should anybody do anything to hurt Clint, directly _or_ indirectly, for the whole scandal with Loki and him being compromised, that he would give them hell. And nobody wanted hell. More so, nobody wanted hell Tony Stark.

The plane would be ready in a few minutes, he knew. That meant he should start making his way up to the port. And he would. He would get on that plane and he would find out what happened to his friend. He would than actually find him, thank him for the arrows, hug him, and then he would probably punch him for almost giving him a heart attack.

Somehow, he figured, the other Avengers would have similar reactions.

He was just curious who would go for the embrace first- then figured, he'd be damned if it wasn't him.


	5. Thor

**Slightly unsure about this- though I did have a whole lotta fun writing it. I sort of ended up expanding on Tony and Thor's relationship, because I think it's totally awesome. What do you guys think? Review, kudos, PM, comment- Fury is next. Do you want Coulson's POV too?**

Thor almost hadn't found out at all.

He had been planning on his return to Asgard. To his home, the home he had missed ever so much- the home which continued to beckon him back with its own version of open arms; offering warmth and gratitude and love. But despite the fact that the entire New York compromise which resulted in his brother's capture and punishment, as well as the saving of oh so many lives, he had yet to experience the excitement and the vigour he would have usually felt in an instance such as this. Of course he had felt the fulfilling emotion of happiness and relief, but regardless of his thankfulness and his missing home, he still found that he did not want to leave. He did not want to leave the planet in which so many families and friends had lived, where no-one was forced to endure the worry and fear of such looming dangers, where humans lived their daily lives with their daily problems of pesky neighbours and ghastly school grades. They were not, well- most of them, burdened with such majestically horrifying responsibilities, they were not cursed with 'supernatural' powers and abilities and the distinguishing the concepts in which their utilisation was required, and in other times when it was not.

And yet, he found his mind wandering and racing once again- he found that the returned serenity and peace of earth was not why he did not wish to return to his home planet.

No, rather, he had realised he would miss something else, something that even to him seemed far more precious to him. It was something he had realised he truly and undeniably cherished and cared for- regardless of the estranged entirety of the notion itself. Yes, once he had thought about it, he had discovered something that was beyond treasurable. It was something he understood; humans, those wonderfully developing and tranquil beings, had given him something more than an adventure and responsibility to save them. They had given him a family.

They had given him a family by the name of the Avengers.

It was a strange compromise that he had yet to fully understand. It perplexed him and had him considering why he felt so glad and content in the presence of his other teammates. He thought he had felt all he could with his family in Asgard and that the whole notion related to obligation and restraint.

But what he had unearthed here- on earth, with four other so, so very different people- well it was something he knew he was going to miss.

So when Director Fury stood before him, his voice thick and heavy and laced with a grim tone of shadowy ominousness, and told him that one of his friends, part of his family, was most likely dead, Thor felt something he hadn't in a long time.

It had begun with something peculiar stirring in the pit of his stomach- something that weighed him down like sharp, jagged rocks sinking into his gut and forming a profound, intense pain cutting him and stabbing him and slashing him in places he didn't even realised existed. It hurt, it physically hurt him, when the agony began to inch and slither across his chest, snaking itself into his heart- replacing its tight and rough presence with a burning sensation that left him gasping silently because he couldn't get enough air into his lungs.

The pain began as a simple bruise would. For a short few moments in between the minimal amount of time in which his ears registered the foreboding words and the seconds which followed, there had been nothing. Not even a sharp biting sting. Just like the nothingness of a blank canvas, Thor felt empty.

Empty.

So very, very empty.

That didn't last very long, however. No sooner than blank lines of his page found themselves forming into a bank of invisibility and seeming indifference, he caught his own movement of averted eyes. It seemed to him in those precious moments that he was not himself, that his movements were not his own. As if his actions were an echo, he didn't feel anything.

His bright, once energetically shining and blissfully toned orbs darkened, shadowed by a looming, imminently intimidating silhouette of opaque obscurity. It shifted the colours and shades in his eyes and produced- from something once so ridiculously and energetically fond and happy- something so abysmal and inauspicious.

Everything occurred to its own accord. Fury had stood before him still, standing at a height of a majestically commanding presence- and yet… and yet the slight manner in which his shoulders slumped, the action of his lips pressing together hard enough to blossom pain, the way in which his hands remained by his sides- long fingers mimicking one another's actions in clenching and unclenching so hard he left his palms pressed into the sides of his lengthy leather coat.

It told him that he wasn't alright either.

And maybe that was how it begun. The glide of unpleasantness which had transformed into a continuous ache, an ache that- unlike a bruise, didn't seem to fade, and pained him regardless of whether he treaded among its territory or not.

It had taken its time, yet the implantation of an emotion so strong seemed ludicrously sudden and immediate.

He tilted his head to the side, and was so glad that the golden locks of his hair adapted easily enough to shield his gaze from view.

Nothing else could be hidden though. The tremors causing his fingers to shake and the deep pounding of his heart in his torso both had him inhaling and exhaling breaths between lips that didn't want to obey.

Tony Stark was dead. Or he most likely was. He… there wasn't much hope.

There wasn't much hope at all.

And Thor, well Thor thought that this was ridiculous. He realised that this was incredibly preposterous. Tony Stark gave hope. Tony Stark was the face of hope for America and the world. Tony Stark was valiant and courageous and he was hope.

If Thor had to describe Tony in one word, it would be hope itself. Because really, that was what he was. He was hope. Hope that bravery and valour still existed and thrived. Hope that there was more to a story than its title. Hope that the world could be saved.

Tony Stark was hope.

And honestly, the demi-god wasn't aware of when he had become so attached to the genius. When he had flown into space and was willing to sacrifice himself to save the lives of thousands? When he had spoken to Thor and shook his hand and offered him somewhere to stay, when he had offered him friendship? When he had downright demanded that Fury and SHIELD not dare exploit Thor or his home because of the mistake Loki had made?

When he had become family?

And as Thor stood there, frigid and still, heart heavy and loud- thumping in a beat and echoing in the soundwaves flowing- he finally understood something.

Tony was strong and daring and a hero. Tony was loyal and chivalrous and noble. Tony was something so many could never even dream to be. Tony had one thing that outdone and outshone the most prevailing powers and fundamental of authorities. Tony had a strength, a strength so powerful and incredible, a strength which dominated any physical ability or mental equation.

Tony had hope, and he allowed it to consume him. Maybe he hadn't realised it, but Thor knew that it had always been there. Tony had hope and it had become him.

And right now, it was something that Tony required. If the hope inside him wasn't enough, the one that would be given to him had to be. Tony Stark wasn't dead.

It was something everyone needed- something everyone had so desperately craved. It would be the light at the end of the tunnel, the epilogue at the end of the book. It would be what brought Tony back- because he wasn't really gone. They would find him. Their hope would find him

He needed it, the Avengers needed it, Fury and SHIELD needed it, America needed it.

The world needed it.

The world needed hope.

So the world needed him.

The world needed Tony Stark.


	6. Fury

**Wow. Surprisingly the longest chapter yet. Who knew Fury had so much to say. Read & Review, Comment & Kudos, or just PM me if you've got anything to say :) Happy reading! Update will be soon!**

He didn't know what it was until it had his pulse racing so hard against his fingers like a rabid rhythm of angry drumming. Until he could feel his skin shuddering and shivering as goose-bumps crawled along his tired limbs, scratching against the thick leather of his jacket. Until his uncovered dark eye-lid slipped down and his eyelashes brushed against his skin, until the images forming and transforming the darkness and threatening abyss of his imagination were far more terrifying than those witnessed on television, or photographed in newspapers. It was something he had never completely understood. It was something which had his fingers tapping to an uneven beat against the soft fabric of the armchair, something that had him fighting hard to plant both feet solidly on the moving, carpeted floor of the plane.

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to make of this emotion. Of course he had felt it before. He had had it pulsing through his veins, crushing like solid metal weight against his chest, forcing his teeth so hard against his lower lip it bled a thin stream. It had rocketed into his arms and legs and held him down, choking him- _suffocating_ him, making him gasp for breath as he struggled to part his lips and open his airway.

It had snapped at him and threatened to overwhelm him, drowning him, stabbing him, _blinding_ him.

Yes, he had felt it before, impossibly surging in his veins and entangling itself within his very soul. Destroying him from the inside.

Yet despite that, he had never expected to feel it towards Tony Stark.

Yet despite that, he had never expected himself to feel it rage and hurl and hurt him from beneath the layers of solitude, barricades of protection, walls of security. Or insecurity.

Yet despite that, he had never expected to feel such guilt again.

_Guilt_.

Such a strong, powerful word. So short and dismissive and empathetic. It seemed misleading, to coerce so much pain and angst and tragedy relating to the emotion in a single, fleeting, indifferent set of five letters.

Yet it was more than that, wasn't it? It was more than a simple, irrelevant word. More than something used to describe the cursed sensations felt when empathy was ignored and intuitions acted against.

It represented far more than it seemed.

He had gotten past feeling this strongly about anything. Or at least he had thought he had. He hadn't remembered feeling the sensation of his eyes narrowing and his fists clenching in defeat in a _long_ time. Because by the time the Avengers Initiative had congregated, he had thought- he had _believed-_ that he had mastered the supreme ability to push away the familiar surge of such passionate emotions. And now, after so long, to experience something so powerful- well he couldn't help but marvel at the fact the guilt was aimed at the person he had least expected.

Tony Stark. He felt guilty because of Tony _freakin'_ Stark.

Of course, the bastard would always make him doubt himself and question his decisions, even from beyond the grave.

In that instance, the moment in which one eye had closed indefinitely- hiding from the world of the living, and the other remained shielded beneath the leather of the eye-patch, he found himself taking a deep breath and forcing away the thoughts and visions of Tony Stark's mangled, bloodied corpse being fished out of the sea- from beneath the bricks and the concrete of his marvellous Malibu estate, from beneath the sand and the dirt and the mud and the _blood_ coating him in a crimson blanket, not haven been completely washed away by the angry waves just yet.

He forced himself to remember that this was no ordinary man. That this was Iron Man.

But he was still Tony, beneath that hard-rock, superhero exterior, wasn't he?

He wasn't a super soldier like Steve Rogers. He didn't have an alter-ego that infused his cells with the infection of gamma rays to turn him into an indestructible being, he wasn't a god. He wasn't trained to be an assassin from a young age like Clint Barton or Natasha Romanov.

Beneath that hard-rock, superhero exterior, he was just a man.

And perhaps, maybe- just maybe- that was where the guilt had sprouted from. It might be that fact that had the self-doubt flourish from within Fury and awakening old, seemingly abandoned demons. Because Tony Stark was a civilian, and there could have always been that one fleeting chance that Fury could have stopped this from happening.

He had tried to tell himself it was a ridiculous notion. That Tony Stark was going to get himself killed whether or not Fury dragged him into a world so full of death and destruction and danger- that he was going to die one way or another. It was probably better that he died to his own accord anyway.

Only, that didn't make all that much sense to him. He hated it, he loathed it and wanted to crush the thought beneath one angry fist- but it was resilient, and as much as he tried to hide it, as hard and deep as he had attempted to bury it, it was still there. It was still there and it blamed him.

He remembered once, a while ago, he remembered saying something to Stark. Of course he had said a lot to, and _about_ the man, but this one particular thing, this one peculiar phrase twisted and mingled in his brain, washing over him as if it were a revelation. He had said to Tony once that Iron Man was approved for the Avengers Initiative, but Tony Stark wasn't.

Fury reprimanded himself for being so damn naïve. He shouldn't have said that. He shouldn't have _believed_ that. But he did and he had. He had figured; why not make the suit and the man two separate figures? Why not differentiate them, alter them- so that they weren't that one, same person? Because honestly, he never wanted Tony Stark. Tony Stark was brash and irrational and narcissistic. But Iron Man? Iron Man was strong and brave and clever. And that was who Fury had needed.

So he had done the cruellest thing imaginable, and forced Tony to separate himself from _himself_.

He hadn't realised it then. He had dismissed the strange, haunted looks lurking within Tony's dark intelligent orbs. The silent tremors in his hands. The thick shirts he would wear to hide the bright blue light of the Arc reactor. He hadn't come to the understanding that- yes, it was the Arc reactor which had powered Iron Man, but it was also the same thing that powered Tony Stark.

And now he felt like slapping himself because he noticed what he was doing. He was going over and filtering all the regrets relating to the man himself because somewhere deep inside, he could feel an estranged sort of fear building- the fear that he was really and truly dead, that Fury had never gotten to change anything or do anything differently for the future.

He finally peeled his eye open as he felt the weight on his chest thicken somehow and press harder against his ribcage. He leaned back further against the comfortable armchair of the airplane and glanced around the room, observing the other Avengers and Coulson.

They were all restless, he noticed. Steve had taken a seat by the window, near the back. His eyebrows were scrunched together softly and the tapping of his index finger against the window pane was far too evident. Anxiousness seeped out of him like an infection, and had apparently found its way into Doctor Banner, who was two minutes away from aggressively stomping his feet into the floor. Orbs staring intently into the outside world, gazing deeply past the thick glass bordering the side of the airplane. Clint and Natasha, as expected, were still and vigilante, though the Director could recognise the familiar slump of the shoulders and downward stare, posture sagging forward ever so slightly. Even Thor was silent, fingers tight around Mjolnir and eyes clenched shut.

They were keeping themselves composed, or at least doing so to the best of their abilities at the moment. And Fury was surprised that even SHIELD's very own Phil Coulson, who hadn't flinched at being faced with alien artillery and a mad Asgardian, sat far too still even for him. Shoulders held and arms stiff and rigid- the posture of a man who was trying too hard to keep alert and ready.

He couldn't understand what they were all feeling; and nor would he try to. There was no point in gaining empathy so far in when his own demons had begun to curl and waken within himself.

There was about an hour until they would land. Sixty minutes until they would breakdown the events and analyse the evidence. Only so many seconds until they would find Tony Stark.

And he would be alive.

He would be alive because Fury hadn't said he could die yet. Because he was still part of SHIELD and the team. Because Fury was far too selfish to let him die and live with the damn guilt that refused to let go of him.

Oh, but when they did find Tony, Fury would be sure to tell him that his little brushes with death were getting old. After all, it was only a few months ago that he had flown off to space and detonated a bomb set to destroy Manhattan. And technically, he did stop breathing. And now, he was, according to the news, technically dead.

And Fury was really getting sick of all these technicalities.


End file.
